Chapter 2088 - A Memoir of Liberation (Part 5)

"Quick march—Forward!"

At around ten in the morning, like thunder from a clear sky, a Fubo Army color guard divided into two columns. Led by a captain raising his command saber high, shouldering Minié rifles, they marched at 170 paces perminute—like a dam cutting through floodwater—parting the crowd thronging East Gate Avenue, clearing a martial corridor down the center. Some troublemakers in the crowd attempted to jeer or hurl insults, but a single glance—intentional or not—from the wolf-like Fubo soldiers made them gape and forget whatever they'd meant to say. The noisy crowd fell deathly silent.

"Halt—!"

"Left face, Right face—!"

"Order—Arms!"

The captain issued continuous commands. The Fubo soldiers flanking both sides executed a crisp about-face and lowered their rifles in perfect unison, butts striking the ground with a heavy, unified thud that resonated in our chests.

Before long, faint sounds of bugles, fifes, and drums drifted from outside the East Gate. The crowd stirred; people stood on tiptoe, craning necks over others' shoulders to see better. A grenadier company in three columns, escorting a massive Star-Fist Red Banner, marched through the city gate to "The Grenadiers' March," stepping precisely to the drumbeat—magnificent, dignified, awe-inspiring.

My God—such soldiers!

The crowd's agitation intensified. Anyone accustomed to the slovenly, swaggering Ming troops, assuming all armies in the world resembled that rabble—who could fail to be struck with awe by the Fubo Army? And these were elite among elites: the grenadiers—ever-advancing, tall and imposing, with combat prowess and bearing both superlative!

These soldiers were tall, and with their peaked caps, they looked like giants descended from legend. Their red uniforms were so splendid and immaculate—leather equipment belts gleaming, bayonets catching the sun like lightning... I was instantly transfixed, unable to look away.

I, born into a "soldier" family, surrounded by soldiers all my life, living among soldiers day after day—I'd never known a soldier, a military man, could cut such an imposing figure!

What had Uncle Jizai worn to war? A loose, one-size-fits-all "marching coat" that hung like a grain sack without a belt. Ill-fitting wasn't the worst of it—because officers embezzled supplies, the coats were always tattered and filthy. Forget martial dignity; you couldn't even look like a proper human being. In ordinary people's eyes, soldiers were lumped together with hoodlums and bandits—barely distinguishable.

Just as we were immersed in wonder and awe, an Elder officer marching at the head—Major Zhu Quanxing, Third Battalion Commander, First Mixed Brigade, my future superior—seemed dissatisfied with the effect. As "The Grenadiers' March" struck up a second time, that thundering drumroll making hearts tremble again, he frowned, quickened his steps, stepped out of formation, turned to face the column, and as the fifers finished one verse, waved his arm decisively and shouted:

"All together now! There's one truth that needs no speaking—ready, sing!"

The soldiers' tense faces suddenly broke into brilliant smiles. The fifers and drummers happily struck up accompaniment, and the soldiers belted out in powerful voices:

"There's one truth that needs no speaking—
A soldier's place is on the battlefield..."

The song spread like a torch touching dry prairie, passing from front to rear by word of mouth, igniting an unstoppable wildfire that echoed through Zhaoqing's morning sky. The long gray dragon sang a stirring tune; every man held his head high with pride, chest thrust forward powerfully. Their medals glittered in the brilliant sunlight—illuminating a Zhaoqing that had been shrouded in darkness for thousands of years.

I was born into a military household. I'd seen soldiers before, heard them sing in unison. But those were "soldiers" in name only—thugs who could only bully defenseless civilians. And those were "songs" no one comprehended—the "Imperial Battle Hymn" they parroted mindlessly like trained animals. But soldiers whose faces beamed with genuine pride? Soldiers brimming with vitality and purpose? Soldiers overflowing with contempt for the enemy and confidence in themselves? Soldiers with such commanding presence—had I ever witnessed the like? The Ming military proclaimed "Good iron isn't made into nails; good men don't become soldiers." The Fubo Army declared "Good steel must be forged into sharp swords; good soldiers must fight the hardest battles." The Ming military spoke of "earning fame with saber and spear, ennobling wife and children"—personal glory. The Fubo Army said "When the Council of Elders calls, we sing our battle song and march forward"—collective duty. The difference was night and day, heaven and earth. I understood in that instant: this was an army that showed its might on the battlefield!

Children who loved excitement lost their initial fear. Exploiting their small size, they escaped adults' grasps, learned the soldiers' songs by ear, and chased after the columns through gaps in the crowd. One boy of about seven—whether he lost his balance or grew too excited—slipped past the color guard and bumped squarely into a young soldier's leg. The soldier instinctively scooped up the child. This friendly action caused a profound stir in the crowd—everyone had believed the hateful Ming authorities' malicious lies and thought the boy would be seized and harmed. The boy's grandfather wanted desperately to rush in and retrieve the child but didn't dare; he stood behind the guards jumping up and down frantically, weeping openly.

The young soldier saw the distraught old man and immediately understood what had happened. He ran out of formation, handed the child back to the grandfather with gentle care, smiled shyly, patted the child's cheek affectionately, waved goodbye, and ran back to his place. This behavior, commonplace in the Fubo Army, caused even greater commotion among the onlookers. Even under the old Ming, bumping into a military formation meant at least a savage beating if you were fortunate; with a bad-tempered officer, you might be killed on the spot with no avenue for justice! People whispered to each other in amazement, unable to believe what had just transpired was real.

What happened next made everyone feel even more as if they were dreaming or witnessing miracles.

After the entry ceremony began, several women with baskets and large teapots came to distribute eggs and tea to the entering troops. But most of our soldiers politely declined with respectful bows. The very few who accepted eggs offered sincere thanks in either fluent or halting Cantonese. Thirsty soldiers who took tea stood in place to drink, returned the bowls to the women personally, expressed heartfelt thanks, then ran back to their units. Eventually the women stopped attempting to distribute eggs and, with the eager help of bystanders, simply pushed them into soldiers' pockets as gifts.

In my private-school days, I'd heard about so-called "Royal Armies" warmly welcomed by the people—folk carrying food in bamboo baskets and water in jugs to greet the "King's Troops." But had I ever witnessed a "Royal Army" that wouldn't even accept the people's food and water? Comrades, in those days, soldiers—whether distant Manchu troops or the nearby Ming army—what army didn't plunder civilians mercilessly? Like our current enemies the Spanish and Dutch—all bandits preying on the common people. We had a saying then: "Bandits pass like a comb; soldiers pass like a fine-toothed comb"—meaning bandits left something behind, but after Ming troops pillaged? Nothing remained. The Fubo Army—this army that didn't rob, didn't kill innocents, treated people kindly, and wouldn't even accept their gifts—was something unprecedented in history. As Brother Hai put it with tears in his eyes: "I've lived this long and seen plenty of armies—what army doesn't plunder civilians? For this alone, the old court can never come back!"

After the Fubo Army liberated Zhaoqing, they imposed military governance. But for the people, apart from some grumbling about the Fubo Army's sanitation rules forbidding public urination and defecation, there was no inconvenience—in fact, city security improved dramatically. Fubo Army officers and soldiers traded fairly and spoke courteously; the Ming authorities' slanderous rumors collapsed of their own patent falsity. Children pinning colored trinkets to their chests as pretend medals and marching in formation behind patrolling Fubo soldiers became one of Zhaoqing's most charming sights. The Fubo Army's catchy military songs became wildly popular among the masses; everywhere one could hear "I Am a Soldier" and "There's One Truth That Needs No Speaking." Interestingly, these songs originally existed only in "New Speech" (Mandarin); somehow translations and adaptations rapidly emerged in Cantonese and local dialects. Once people understood the lyrics' meaning, their affection for our Fubo Army grew even stronger.

To be a soldier is to be a Fubo soldier! From that day forward, my conviction was unshakeable. When the Fubo Army later recruited locally, I persuaded my parents, and together with Brother Hai, went to the barracks to enlist. When the recruiting officer asked my name, I told him proudly: I am Liu Xing—"Xing" as in "awakening."

(End of Chapter)